


Remind Me To Be Sorry That We Met

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Slings & Arrows
Genre: Community: dsc6dsnippets, Episode Related, Grief/Mourning, POV Third Person Limited, Past Relationship(s), Prompt Fic, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:46:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellen between Oliver's death and funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remind Me To Be Sorry That We Met

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [ds-snippets](ds=snippets.livejournal.com), for the prompts “met” and "all I had for lunch, was red wine, more red wine, and Cap'n Crunch".

Ellen’s kitchen is full of flowers.  The table is littered with insincere notes from people who didn’t particularly like Oliver and don’t particularly like her, either.  Her vision is blurry, but that’s due to the fact that all she’s had to eat today is a great deal of red wine and half a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.  Certainly not because she’s crying.

She should cry for Oliver, she supposes, but it just seems like too much effort.  Crying for herself would be too self-centered even for her.

She stares woozily at the flowers.  At least two people sent lilies—how’s that for tacky?—and the perfume is turning her stomach.  Or maybe it’s the alcohol.

She should be grateful to Oliver.  If he hadn’t brought her to New Burbage. . .she literally can’t imagine what her life would be like now.  Maybe she’d be eking out a meager living in summer stock and tiny independent theatres.  Or doing commercials (the proverbial fate worse than death).  Maybe she’d be starring in a TV show like Barbara.

Maybe she would have given up on acting altogether and taken up. . .baking.

Maybe—and this is the wine talking, but she’s too tired to stop it—maybe one day she’d look up from her fruit tarts and a tall, handsome, dark-haired man (God, her life really has been one cliché after another) with crooked eye-teeth and mischievous eyes would be leaning over her counter, asking, “What do you have that’s enthralling?”

Damn Oliver, anyway.  Leaving her here alone to deal with this farce (she’s not sure if she means his funeral, the _Dream_ , the Festival, her life).  And she can’t even manage to be sorry that she met him.

Either of them.


End file.
